


if you cut me in half with a spade

by resistate



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: @ the canadian media, F/M, anyway this was cathartic to write, except not really, marie-france dubreuil and I are mad at scott moir, mentions of other relationships, pls don't read this if you're the canadian media, politics in yr figure skating rpf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 23:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20281660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resistate/pseuds/resistate
Summary: Scott Moir’s parents have a couple of things they would like to say to him. August 2019.





	if you cut me in half with a spade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anneweaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneweaver/gifts).

> Shout out to nat for telling me to write this and coming up with all my favourite parts <3

//

Patrice

August 7, 2019

London, Ontario

The dust is finally settling on Tessa’s hometown stars celebration. Patrice can say with some conviction that this is a literal as well as a metaphorical fact. The sun is low enough in the sky that it’s made its way into Museum London at last, throwing a gentle spotlight on everything in its path. Patrice stands next the huge windows in the Atrium, watching dust particles dance and people take their leave. Marie’s on her second round of good-byes with Tessa and her mother and sister and as soon as she’s done, he and his wife are heading back to their hotel to grab some downtime before their dinner reservation. Patrice is contemplating dessert options when Scott makes his way over.

They exchange greetings and Patrice lets his side of the conversation drop. Scott can do the work here. Or maybe he’ll take the hint and take a hike. He keeps standing next to Patrice, though, not saying anything.

From across the room, Marie catches his eye and smiles. He can tell when she spots Scott. All of the warmth in her expression disappears, replaced by frosty politeness. After a moment, Marie turns her attention back to Tessa’s sister.

‘So,’ says Scott.

He doesn’t follow this up, and Patrice doesn’t feel inclined to help him out. If Scott wants to say something, he can say it.

‘Is—is Marie okay?’

Patrice looks over to where his wife is standing. Marie is laughing, one hand on Jordan’s arm. Kate and Tessa are laughing as well. Patrice doesn’t know Jordan all that well, but he’s met her enough times to know she shares the same bright, wry sense of humour as her sister.

‘Marie looks fine to me,’ Patrice says, mildly.

‘Um—I guess,’ says Scott. He lifts an arm and scratches the back of his head. He needs a haircut. ‘I guess—she doesn’t seem like she’s okay with me.’

So, they’re going to talk about the elephant in the room. Better that Patrice has this conversation with Scott than Marie, he supposes. He’s not surprised that Scott hasn’t approached his wife directly; confronting his mistakes has never been Scott’s strength. He was always quick to say anything that went wrong on the ice was his fault, not Tessa’s, and it’s not that Patrice doubts that Scott believed every word; it’s that that was the way Scott and Tessa had always made their programmes work. Tessa was always quick to do the same, to say that anything that went wrong was her fault. It had worked for the two of them on the ice, but real life isn’t like that. Patrice has found that away from competition, Scott isn’t so quick to admit he’s at fault about anything.

‘She’s not okay with you, Scott. Neither of us are.’

Scott doesn’t have anything to say to that. Patrice decides to take pity on him, or maybe it’s just that he wants to have this conversation done and dusted. Or maybe it’s that Patrice has things he wants to say, too.

‘Everything I said at your ceremony and Tessa’s is true, of course,’ he says. ‘I’m not disputing any of that.’

He’s not looking at Scott. He’s choosing instead to focus on his wife, laughing and smiling on the other side of the room. Marie has a beautiful smile. From the corner of his eye, he sees Scott shift from foot to foot.

‘Well, that’s okay,’ Scott says. ‘That’s the important thing, I guess, right?’ He sounds bitter, and Patrice wants to laugh. He doesn’t, because nothing about this is funny. Scott’s still talking. ‘As long as you’re keeping up appearances in public, right, that’s what—'

‘—We found out you’re getting married from the presenter at your ceremony today, Scott.’

That shuts Scott up.

Patrice should probably stop talking, but he’s hurt and more than that, Marie’s hurt. Marie’s devastated, and it’s because of Scott. ‘We appreciate your trust—’

Patrice can’t even finish his sentence because all of a sudden, he’s tearing up. Gentle sarcasm is second-nature to him, but he can’t, it turns out. Not right now. Scott’s like a younger brother to Patrice. When he and Marie had gotten engaged, Patrice been full to bursting with joy. He couldn’t wait to tell every single person he knew, whether they were family or not. At the time, he hadn’t been anywhere as close to Tessa and Scott as he is now, and he and Marie had still told both of them, first chance they had, that they had decided to spend the rest of their lives together.

‘I thought you knew,’ mumbles Scott.

‘Of course we knew,’ says Patrice. He’s known Scott has a girlfriend, but Scott had never gotten around to introducing her to him and Marie, despite their hints and later, their outright invitations. The other week Zach had told him that Scott had been at that big music festival in Montréal, the one Tessa had been at for work, and that Scott’s girlfriend had been there, too. Scott’s girlfriend had had a massive rock on her finger, Zach had said, gleeful. Patrice was sure he’d been angling to get the inside scoop, but of course Patrice had had no news to give him.

Tessa, when questioned, had been evasive, but then Tessa had also spent every moment she wasn’t at the festival in her room at Patrice and Marie’s house, so that had been their answer. Patrice loved his daughter dearly, but he was sure it was politeness on Tessa’s part that had caused her to look happier in the aftermath of Billie’s very aggressive cheering-up tactics.

‘Of course we knew, Scott,’ Patrice says again. ‘That is not my point.’

Scott’s so quiet when he finally speaks that Patrice almost doesn’t hear him. ‘Marie wouldn’t even look at her.’

Patrice’s laugh sounds unfriendly even to his own ears. Marie may lose her temper when it’s just the two of them; she may rant and rail against everything in existence, but she will never, not ever, make a scene in public. ‘You’re lucky she looked at you, Scott. You’re one lucky son of a bitch, you really are.’

Scott is silent, and Patrice guesses he doesn’t feel lucky. He should. Marie-France when she’s angry and has the truth on her side is an experience he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

Challenging Scott on anything is an uphill battle. Patrice is tired to begin with, and this conversation that’s not going anywhere is making him more tired still. He almost walks away—he can find another spot to wait for Marie—except that’s Scott’s family. Even when Patrice is angry and disappointed with him, he’s still family.

‘I thought Tessa was going to tell you,’ Scott says.

‘Don’t you dare,’ says Patrice, not bothering to keep the anger out of his voice. ‘Don’t you dare blame Tessa for your fuck-up, Scott.’

Scott’s quicker to respond to anger than he is to disappointment. Patrice had forgotten that about him, caught up in his own emotions, but he remembers now. There’s no pause at all before Scott says, ‘I always knew you guys loved Tessa better than me.’

Patrice doesn’t want to have to respond to that, because if Scott doesn’t know by now that that’s not true, that that’s never been true—

He hugs Scott. Scott hugs him back.

‘I guess I should have introduced her sooner,’ Scott says after they break apart.

‘Why didn’t you?’ ask Patrice. He tries not to sound accusatory, but he’s not sure how well he succeeds.

There’s a long pause before Scott answers. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know. I guess—I wasn’t sure if you and Marie would like her.’

It’s hard to like someone you’ve never met. Patrice doesn’t voice this thought, but he doesn’t have to. Scott flushes.

‘She’s not Tessa,’ he says, defensive. Patrice would love to know what happened there, but he knows better than to ask. This isn’t the place, or the time, and besides, he’s not convinced Scott could even say.

‘We don’t care about that,’ Patrice says. This isn’t entirely true, but it’s true enough for right now. He and Marie want Scott to be happy. It’s all they’ve ever wanted for Tessa and Scott both.

It’s late enough now that the sun’s path through the Atrium has been and gone. He catches Marie’s eye, and she tilts her head at him in a way that he knows means she wants to get going. It’s been a long day for both of them. He wants to get going, too. He wants to be in the car with Marie on the way back to the hotel, just the two of them set apart from the world; just for a little while.

He knows Marie and Scott have already said their goodbyes this evening. ‘Hey, make yourself scarce,’ he says. ‘Marie and I are going to make a move and she’s not coming over here until you’re gone.’

Scott winces, but Patrice doesn’t much care. Sometimes the truth hurts. When Scott turns to go, Patrice stops him for a moment with a hand on his arm.

‘She’ll come around,’ he says. ‘Apologise. Make it up to her. Give it time.’

It’s not until later, when they find out more about Scott’s fiancée, that Patrice realises how unlikely it is that time will heal any of the wounds Scott has inflicted. Time isn’t going to make any difference to Patrice. It isn’t going to make any difference to Marie. Time will move on, but nothing will be as it was.

//

Marie

August 7, 2019

Ilderton, Ontario

It’s dark when Marie knocks on the front door of an unassuming house on a quiet, tree-lined street. It’s late to be calling on people, but she and Patrice are due to return their rental car and fly back to Montréal first thing in the morning. If she wants to talk to Scott in person, it’s going to have to be now. The pleased expression he wears when he answers the door is quick to drop, replaced by something that looks like apprehension, or maybe guilt. He should look guilty, she thinks. He should look like a man about to be hanged.

Before either of them can say anything, someone inside the house calls to Scott. Marie thinks she recognises Alma’s voice and sure enough, she appears in the hallway behind her son, drying her hands on a tea towel. If Alma was doing the dishes, Scott better damn well have cooked. It occurs to her, though, that probably no one tonight had cooked. Probably everyone had had dinner reservations somewhere nice, same as Marie and Patrice. Her need for Scott to be held accountable for something, anything, is running deep. She guesses it’s only to be expected, under the circumstances.

‘Marie!’ exclaims Alma. ‘This is a surprise. Come on in. Scott, why haven’t you invited Marie in? Where are your manners?’

Scott steps aside. In the hallway, Marie hitches the purse on her shoulder out of the way so she can give Alma a better hug.

‘Coffee?’ asks Alma. ‘Come on through,’ she adds, turning and walking toward the kitchen. Marie follows.

‘Coffee would be lovely, thank you,’ she says. She won’t sleep tonight, but she won’t anyway. She’s too furious.

‘You’ll join us, Scott?’ says Alma.

‘Actually—’

Marie sees Alma give her son a look. ‘Just let me grab a sweater,’ he mumbles.

There’s an old but respectable coffeemaker on the counter in the kitchen. When Alma opens the lid, Marie can smell the faint, pleasant aroma of coffee grinds. Alma places the old filter in the compost bucket on the counter and takes a box of fresh filters from a cupboard next to the sink. Marie is hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia for her own childhood kitchen. Her mother had made pot after pot of coffee, daily. Marie hadn’t been allowed to have coffee until she was twelve, but she still felt as if she’d grown up on the stuff.

‘Have a seat, dear,’ Alma says, over her shoulder.

Marie sits down at the round wooden table in the middle of the room. There’s a shoebox full of photos perched on the chair next to her and craft supplies scattered across the table. Marie moves a couple of spools of ribbon, stacking them carefully on top of a battered plastic organiser, to make space for their coffees. There’s a small bottle of school glue resting on an open scrapbook next to the organiser, and Marie realises belatedly the glue must have been why Alma had been drying her hands when she’d come to the door. She must not have been doing dishes at all.

The scrapbook is open to what looks like a work in progress. Most of the page is blank, save for a photo of Scott as a child, wearing skates and standing next to a girl about his age Marie doesn’t recognise.

She watches as Alma spoons coffee from a white tin with flowers on the rim, adding it to the coffeemaker by sight. The tin has ‘coffee’ written on the side in plain, bold script.

‘Can I do anything?’ she asks.

‘Definitely not,’ says Alma. ‘You sit right down there and relax. You’ve had a long day.’

Marie’s not here to argue. Not with Alma, anyway. ‘What do you think of this girl, then?’ she asks. She may as well pick Alma’s brain while she has the chance.

Alma’s standing at the sink, her back to Marie. Her shoulders creep toward her ears at the question. ‘Cara likes her,’ she says, doubtfully.

‘Who does Cara like?’ asks Scott, coming into the kitchen.

Marie wants to say, _that bitch you’ve gone and gotten yourself engaged to_, but she’s here to get some answers, not get Scott so mad he won’t talk to her. ‘Your fiancée,’ she says.

‘Oh,’ Scott says. Alma doesn’t say anything.

‘I like her too,’ Scott says, sounding for all the world like a teenager asserting himself loudly and obnoxiously to anyone and everyone. ‘I love her, in fact.’

Neither Marie nor Alma have anything to say to that, it turns out. After a minute Alma says, ‘Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up then.’

Scott glances at the project spread across the table. ‘Ma, you’re okay,’ he says. ‘If you don’t mind, Marie, we can sit on the porch?’

It’s a mild evening. She nods.

‘I’ll bring your coffee out when it’s ready,’ says Alma.

‘Thanks, Ma,’ says Scott. ‘Marie’s one sugar, no milk.’

There’s a wicker table and a couple of matching chairs on the Moirs’ large front porch. There’s some sort of vine with wide, flat leaves that Marie doesn’t recognise growing from railing to roof on two sides of the porch, giving the illusion of walls.

Marie takes the seat on the far side of the table. Scott stands for a moment, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, before he takes the seat across from her. The medicinal scent from the two large citronella candles in the centre of the table hangs in the air.

Marie thinks again about what she wants to say and how she wants to say it. She’d planned to spend the drive to Scott’s parents’ house organising her thoughts, but that hadn’t really happened. London to Ilderton is a short journey, and when it boils down to it, she doesn’t have all that much to say, but still. Her thoughts are an unorganised mess. Where the fuck does she even start?

‘Sorry for not telling you,’ Scott says, breaking the silence.

Marie laughs. It comes out loud and sharp and bitter. She’s glad. Scott seems taken aback, and she’s glad about that, too. She wishes she could go back in time to this afternoon, when the worst she’d felt was angry and hurt. It had been horrible at the time, but in retrospect it was better than the way she feels now. Now, she feels sick to her stomach.

‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ Scott says.

‘You really had us fooled,’ Marie says. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Scott?’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ he demands.

The screen door on Scott’s far side squeaks open and Alma comes out with their coffees. Scott falls silent. He and Marie thank Alma and she goes back into the house, squeezing Scott’s shoulder as she goes past.

‘What the hell do you mean, ‘I had you fooled’?’ asks Scott, again.

‘I mean,’ says Marie, ‘what they hell was the point of all that therapy? Patrice and I thought you were well on your way to sorting yourself out, but I guess it really was just about winning medals.’

Scott bristles. ‘Yeah, well, now I’m winning at life, right. I’m going to have everything anyone could ever want. A beautiful, smart, funny wife who loves me just the way I am and who wants the same things I want. In a year, a year and a half, tops, I’m going to be a father, Marie. Can you imagine?’

He’s gone from sounding defensive to sounding excited. Marie feels more than ever that she might actually lose her dinner. It would be a shame, as the food at the restaurant Tessa had recommended had been lovely. Also, Alma wouldn’t deserve it. Marie could lean over the railing to spare the porch, except that the vines are in the way.

‘Imagine if you and Patrice didn’t have Billie-Rose,’ Scott continues.

Marie’s fingers tighten around her mug. She doesn’t want to imagine life without her daughter. Billie is the best thing that’s ever happened to Marie and that’s saying a lot, because of course, she has Patrice. But she and Patrice have done their best to teach Billie right from wrong. They’ve tried to do that much at least for their daughter and for the world. She can’t say that they’re perfect parents; of course, they’re not. All they can do is try. They try to do right by their skaters, too, which is another reasons this is so devastating. Scott has had his moments selfishness and immaturity, but she’d never in a million years have thought he’d be capable of stupidity on this scale.

She shakes her head, because of course he’s capable of it. She tunes back into what Scott’s saying.

‘We have a lot in common, me and her.’ He’s smiling at Marie, he’s fucking _smiling_ at her, like he thinks he’s talked her into seeing his point of view, and she doesn’t—she will never—

‘Oh, what, like ignoring babies in cages,’ says Marie.

‘What?’ asks Scott. The look on his face says he’s not sure those words in that order came out of Marie’s mouth. They sure as hell did, so she repeats herself, word for word, making sure to enunciate so there’s no mistaking her meaning.

‘What the fuck, Marie?’ demands Scott, jumping up out of his chair. He seems so angry and so—bewildered—that for a moment she hopes that she’s got it wrong. The evidence is compelling, but maybe—

‘You didn’t introduce us to her or tell us anything about her,’ says Marie, her voice cool and level. It turns out she’s too angry to even yell. She hasn’t lifted her mug to start drinking her coffee, because she’s not convinced she won’t just spill it everywhere. She feels like she hasn’t stopped shaking since she found out.

‘I can see now why you didn’t want us to meet her,’ Marie says. ‘I can see why you wouldn’t be proud that you’re marrying a fucking fascist.’

‘You take that back,’ Scott says, clearly furious. ‘You take that back right the fuck now. She is not—she—’

‘—supports Trump? Throws MAGA parties? Thinks deportation is a laughing matter?’

‘Where the hell did you find that stuff,’ says Scott, sitting back down. He seems less angry but he’s not denying anything, Marie notices.

‘She locked all her social media accounts; she had to; people were—’

‘—dying at the border?’

‘That’s not fair,’ Scott says, practically yelling. The vines blocking their view of the street make the two of them seem isolated, cut off from the world, but they’re really, really not.

‘It’s absolutely fair,’ Marie says.

Scott runs a hand over his face. ‘She doesn’t—yeah, okay, she did those things. I mean, it wasn’t her party, but—and I’d still like to know where you got that stuff, by the way.’

Marie doesn’t see any reason not to tell him. ‘We couldn’t find anything out about her on the internet, so we asked Tim to have a look,’ she says. Scott looks like he wants to argue with this. ‘Go on,’ she says, wanting him be able to tell her something that will make this make sense.

‘It’s not that big a deal,’ says Scott. ‘You can support Trump and not support everything that’s going on, you know?’

‘No,’ says Marie. ‘No, I don’t, Scott.’

‘I don’t support Trump,’ Scott offers.

So that’s that, then. She didn’t realise until now how much she’d been hoping that he somehow hadn’t known; that he would be as shocked and disgusted as she and Patrice are. She’s still furious; she doesn’t know when she’s ever been this furious, but she’s also suddenly, overwhelmingly, sad.

‘You’re not saying anything,’ Scott says, after a couple of minutes have gone by. He’s been drinking his coffee and sneaking apprehensive looks at her, but Marie still hasn’t been able to touch hers, other than to wrap her hands around her mug for its warmth.

She looks up and meets Scott’s eyes. ‘I’m not coming to your wedding,’ she tells him. ‘Or, I’ll come if Tessa asks me to, for Tessa, but I’m not coming for you, or her.’

Scott’s shoulders sag. ‘That’s not fair,’ he mumbles.

‘Fair?’ says Marie. ‘You have a lot of nerve, Scott. You have a fucking lot of nerve.’

‘You have a lot of nerve,’ Scott counters. ‘I thought we were friends, Marie. For fuck’s sake, I thought we were family.’

‘You are family,’ Marie says. ‘It’s the only reason Patrice and I haven’t killed you yet.’

Scott’s laugh sounds watery. She thinks see tears in his eyes, but she’s not going to weaken. She can’t. This is people’s _lives_.

‘What about Patrice?’ he asks, looking straight at her, and yeah, those are definitely tears.

Marie shakes her head. ‘He cried when he found out,’ she says. It had been terrible; almost frightening. She’s rarely seen her husband in such a state. When his father had died; certainly. Maybe one or two other times. He’d offered to come with her tonight, but he’d looked so drained she hadn’t had the heart to drag him along. ‘No, Scott,’ she says. ‘Patrice won’t be coming either.’

He lets out a shuddering breath. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Fine, okay, I get it. You guys do what you want to do. I don’t care.’

He doesn’t sound at all convincing. It’s late, and probably Marie should go, but she stays where she is.

‘Why?’ she asks after a minute. She just—doesn’t understand.

‘You tell me why,’ says Scott immediately. He’s back to sounding like a petulant child. ‘It’s because she’s not Tessa, isn’t it? You’d be coming if I was marrying Tessa, wouldn’t you?’

If he were marrying Tessa, she wouldn’t be here right now. She wouldn’t be struggling to reconcile her love for Scott with her loss of respect. She guesses it’s probably better, in the end, to know the lengths to which people will go, just to get what they think they want. It doesn’t feel like it, though. It feels rotten.

‘This has nothing to do with Tessa,’ she says. ‘This has to do with you and your poor choices, Scott.’

He shrugs like he doesn’t care what she thinks. She doesn’t think that’s true. She wants to shake him and shake him until it sinks in and he gets a clue, but that’s never worked with Scott.

‘Tessa doesn’t hate her,’ Scott says. ‘Tessa doesn’t hate me.’

‘We don’t hate you, Scott,’ says Marie. ‘We’re just—’

‘—disappointed in me,’ finishes Scott, sounding resigned.

He wouldn’t have to be resigned if he would just get his head out of his ass and start paying attention to what’s going on around him. She doesn’t get—she will never get—why he gives up so easily, on himself, and on other people.

‘I wouldn’t use Tessa as a barometer,’ says Marie.

Scott’s head snaps up, his expression wary. ‘Oh?’ he says coldly, like he thinks maybe Marie is somehow—impossibly—insulting Tessa. She wants to roll her eyes. Tessa’s thought Scott’s hung the moon as long as Marie’s known her. Tessa’s not a good judge of whether Scott’s gone off the rails.

Marie’s mug isn’t warming her hands anymore, and they’ve got an early start again tomorrow.

‘We always thought you and Tessa would end up together,’ says Marie, because fuck it. Chances are she’d not going to be seeing Scott again for a long, long time.

‘And you don’t think that was part of the problem?’ asks Scott, sounding bitter.

‘Don’t blame other people for your choices, Scott. Don’t you dare. The two of you had something special—’

‘—you don’t know a goddamn thing,’ Scott says loudly. ‘No one understands what me and Tessa have, don’t you dare—’

It’s only when it suddenly stops that Marie realises she’d been hearing the sound of footsteps. She glances over and sees Scott’s fiancée paused on the top step of the porch. Scott stops talking, twisting his head to see what’s going on.

‘This is a private conversation,’ says Marie, pointedly.

‘Jackie, please,’ says Scott. ‘Just—I’ll see you inside in a minute, okay?’

Marie hears the screen creak door open and closed. She gets up and pours the contents of her mug over the railing, through a gap in the leaves. She doesn’t want Alma to think she’s so rude as to not have drunk he coffee she’d so kindly made. She sets her empty mug on the table.

‘Tell Alma thank you for me,’ she says to Scott.

‘Yeah,’ says Scott. He’s standing now too.

They look at each other. Marie doesn’t know when she’s ever felt so torn.

‘Come here,’ she says.

She hugs him. He holds on to her tightly.

‘You need a haircut,’ Marie says.

‘You told me that this afternoon,’ Scott says, his voice muffled against her hair.

‘Well, I’m telling you again,’ she says. ‘And get your shit together,’ she adds.

‘I do have my shit together,’ he says.

‘You really don’t,’ she says. She feels him shrug before he pulls away.

Marie hoists her purse over her shoulder. She turns to look at Scott when she gets to the top of the stairs. He’s watching her. ‘I love you,’ she tells him. ‘Patrice loves you, too. We both love you.’

Scott shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘Sure,’ he says. He slams both doors on his way inside the house.

Marie stands there for a minute, resisting the urge to throw her purse after him, or scream, or cry. Then she gets in her rental car and tries, just for a change, to drive away from this whole mess.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘Talking’ by Michael Figura.
> 
> If I hadn’t finished drafting this literally right before the eTalk interview dropped, Marie-France and Patrice would definitely have been doing some additional yelling.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read this in draft form, especially nat and úna <3


End file.
